


you maybe can't go home (but baby, you'll be fine)

by riverlight



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-28
Updated: 2008-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-26 16:57:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverlight/pseuds/riverlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendon texts him on the third day he's home. "spence" it says, "spence since when is it so fucking weird to be home?"</p><p>"Three guesses, dipshit," Spencer texts back. "Since we became fucking rockstars."</p>
            </blockquote>





	you maybe can't go home (but baby, you'll be fine)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [airinshaw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/airinshaw/gifts).



> **Obligatory RPS disclaimer:** If you got here by googling your own name? You should probably not read this. There's plenty of porn out there that you'd find less disturbing (and also more explicit). Just sayin'.
> 
> This one's for airinshaw, because she is Just That Cool! *g* About twelve hours overdue, my dear, for which: apologies! But hopefully it'll be a nice surprise when you come home from work.
> 
> Many thanks to strangecobwebs and embracepassion for their encouragement, their beta jobs, and their willingness to put up with me whining about deadlines and being terribly antisocial while I wrote. You guys rock.

Brendon texts him on the third day he's home. Spencer's in the kitchen, still in his pajama pants and an old merch shirt even though it's past noon, idly trying to decide between leftover Chinese food and cereal for lunch, when his phone buzzes where he's tossed it on the counter. _spence_ it says, _spence since when is it so fucking weird to be home?_ No capital letters but weirdly proper spelling, totally Brendon all over, and Spencer can't help smiling.

He grabs the box of General Tso's and takes his phone into the living room. _Three guesses, dipshit,_ he texts back. _Since we became fucking rockstars._

Three seconds later his phone rings, and Spencer doesn't even look to see who it is. "Yeah, see, the problem with that," Brendon says, "is that there's a distinct lack of fucking going on in my life, Spence. No fucking whatsoever." He's walking; Spencer can hear the catch in his breath, muted traffic noises in the background. "I'm just saying, the least the universe could do is provide me with pretty girls. Pretty girls, Spence. It's been so long since I've gotten laid I don't even know."

Spencer's totally not going there. He takes a bite of broccoli and rice. "Mmhm," he says. "What's up, man?"

Brendon huffs a laugh. "I'm telling you, man. It's fucking weird to be home." Brendon being Brendon, he sounds totally cheerful about it; Spencer's long since learned not to pay any attention to his tone of voice. His face can't keep any secrets, though. That's the problem with the telephone.

"Yeah?" Spencer tips his head back against the sofa and stares at the ceiling. His mother's watercolor looks pretty weird upside down. Brendon's got his own place for the break, some tiny sublet. Yeah, it would be weird, Spencer reflects, being in Vegas but not being home. He's barely seen his family since he's been here, waking up late and wandering down to the kitchen after everyone's left, but it's like what he imagines it would be like if he'd gone off to college. Normal.

"Yeah." Brendon pauses. In the background, Spencer can hear sirens. "Hey, ambulance. I hope everything's all right."

Spencer sighs. "Brendon, get to the fucking point," he says. He takes another bite and chews into the phone, just to be obnoxious. He's trying to pretend he's not wondering what it means that Brendon's taken three days to call, but it's mostly not working.

"I don't have any furniture yet," Brendon says. "Hey, are you eating? I don't have any food yet, either. If I come over, will you feed me?"

"Yeah, whatever," Spencer says. "You can have some of my General Tso's if you get here before I finish it." Brendon's at least a half-hour walk away, no way he'll get to Spencer's in time.

"Sweet," Brendon says. " _I'll meet you on your doorstep,"_ he warbles, purposefully off-key. "I'm on the corner of Carillo and Watertown, I'll be there in like five."

"Wait, what?" Spencer says. "You started walking before you called me? Not cool, man. I'm still in my pajamas."

"Whatever," Brendon says, sounding totally pleased with himself. "Not like I haven't seen you like that ten million times." He's still cackling when Spencer hangs up on him.

The thing is, he and Brendon hooked up a couple of times before the tour ended. There are layers of weird to this that Spencer does not like to think about. For one thing, he has no idea how it started. The last thing he remembers clearly from that night, he was mellow and relaxed and just the right side of tipsy, watching the Princess Bride for the millionth time on cable, like practically every other night when they were so exhausted with being on the road that they just wanted to lie around the hotel room and not move ever again. The next morning he woke up with a pounding headache and was totally fine until breakfast, and then he was blindsided by a sudden sense-memory of the scrape of Brendon's stubble against his collarbones and the wet heat and weight of Brendon's dick in his hand. And it was like falling down the rabbit hole, or something, because two nights later he lay in another hotel bed and tried to breathe as quietly as he could while Brendon gave him a handjob with Ryan and Jon asleep not two feet away because the hotel hadn't given them two rooms. And two days after _that,_ he followed Brendon into the bathroom at a venue and stuck his hand down his jeans and let Brendon pant into the hollow of his neck while he came. And then the tour ended, and they went home, and he hasn't heard from Brendon since.

Fucking weird. And another thing is, he's pretty sure Brendon would say he's straight, if anyone asked. Up until, like, two weeks ago, Spencer would have said so, too. Now he's not so sure.

By the time the doorbell rings he's switched the pajamas for jeans, at least. Brendon's in jeans and a button-down, hair spiked and black-rimmed glasses Spencer hasn't seen before, and Spencer's stomach jumps, just a little. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do with his hands. "Hey," he says, finally.

Brendon quirks an eyebrow at him. "What, no hug? Spence, I'm wounded."

Spencer laughs. "You're such a girl, Urie," he says, but he opens his arms anyway.

Three hours later, they've played an hour of old-school Mario Brothers, eaten most of the leftover lasagna from yesterday's dinner, left four messages on Ryan's cellphone, and walked to Blockbuster and back. Spencer has pretty much run out of things to do that will keep them out of his bedroom, but if Brendon's noticed, he hasn't said anything. Not that Spencer would be opposed to…anything that they might do given a vertical surface and a couple of hours alone in the house, but—maybe it was just a tour thing, for all he knows, and it hasn't made things weird so far, but somehow it feels like it might, now that they're home. And Brendon's his bandmate, which means it's probably a bad idea, but on the other hand, he's one of Spencer's best friends, and that either makes an even worse idea or a great one, Spencer's not sure which.

Brendon keeps touching him, though. Spencer's trying not to read anything into it, but every time Brendon does it, it's like this low-level buzz all along his skin. It's fucking distracting.

Just when he's about to suggest they walk down to the grocery store, simply for something to do that might distract them from any potentially awkward conversations, Spencer's mom comes home. Spencer gets a kiss on the forehead, and Brendon gets a hug and an invitation to stay for dinner. "Hey, kiddo," she says. "How's the new place?"

"Oh, man," Brendon says, laughing. "Empty. I still haven't gotten furniture yet. I'm gonna make Spencer take me to IKEA, I think."

"Oh, god, you'll never escape," she says, laughing too. But Spencer hasn't spent the last two years on tour with Brendon without learning to read his moods, and he'd maybe fool anyone else, but there's something on his face that makes Spencer think about what he was saying on the phone, earlier, about how weird it was being home. _Shit._

"Yeah, yeah," he says, elbowing Brendon in the side. "Come on, you know you love that place as much as I do. It's addictive." He slides out from under Brendon's draped arm and grabs salad-makings from the fridge. "Come on, Urie, give me a hand."

Sure enough, Brendon seizes the excuse and changes the subject and asks Spencer's mom how work is going. And then his sisters and dad come home, and it's all chaos and laughter and Lauren almost knocking over the candles and his father telling stupid-yet-hilarious jokes about lawyers and his mom teasing Cate about her boyfriend until she blushes and threatens to leave the table. A typical evening in the Smith household, in other words, except that the whole time, Brendon's knees are nudging his under the table. And when they're putting the dishes in the dishwasher, Brendon asks whether his mom minds if he crashes there for the night, slanting a glance over at Spencer, voice oh-so-casual, and Spencer's heart begins to pound.

There's no alcohol making everything blurry, this time; everything's crystal clear and focused. Brendon keeps touching him: fingers trailing against his shoulder, his palm against the small of his back to nudge him up the stairs. He rubs his thumb against the back of Spencer's neck, once, and Spencer shivers, he can't help it. Behind him, Brendon hums a little pleased sound.

Brendon shuts the door behind them, and they stand there in the dark for a minute not saying anything. Spencer kind of feels like he should crack a joke or something; maybe he's read this wrong. He can't think of anything to say, though, so they just stand there looking at each other in the dim glow from the streetlight filtering through the curtains. Finally, Brendon grins. "So, Spencer Smith," he says, quietly, "you wanna have sex in your childhood bed?"

Spencer hooks his thumbs in the beltloops of Brendon's jeans and pulls him so they're standing hip-to-hip in the middle of the room. "Mm, well," he murmurs, about two inches from Brendon's mouth, "you were asking about pretty girls, earlier, man, I don't know. You sure I'm your type?"

Brendon slides the tips of his fingers into the back pockets of Spencer's jeans and tugs him a little closer. His body's warm. "Well, Spence..." he says. He sounds totally serious, but his eyes are laughing. "I'm pretty sure if I called you pretty, you wouldn't put out. And—" he rocks his hips against Spencer's, physical punctuation—"A girl? Not so much."

"True," Spencer says. Brendon laughs.

"But yeah," Brendon says. He's trailing his fingers up and down Spencer's spine, making him shiver again. "You, Spencer Smith, are pretty much definitely my type."

"Good," Spencer says. That's about all he can manage, at this point.

Brendon smiles, and leans in and lets his lips touch Spencer's, lightly, for just a second. "Spence," he whispers. "You know I can't go home, right?"

Spencer freezes. "Yeah, Bren, I know," he says, quietly, a beat late.

"Yeah, well," Brendon says. He shrugs. "It sucks, what can I say? You wanna help me forget about it, Spencer Smith?"

Spencer looks at him. He not sure whether he should, like, give him a hug, or kiss him again, or what. But. Another thing he's learned in two years of knowing Brendon is that he can trust him to ask for help when he really needs it. "You sure that's a good idea?" he asks, after a minute.

"Well, _yeah,"_ Brendon says. "Sex is good, Spence." Spencer rolls his eyes. But Brendon's smiling, and it's a real smile, so maybe it is okay. "And anyway," he adds, and now he's grinning up at Spencer, "I pretty much have a huge crush on you, so. You know. I think it's pretty much like the best idea ever."

Oh. So—okay. Maybe not just a tour thing, then. Spencer laughs, suddenly breathless. He feels like his heart's expanding in his chest, fizzy with warmth. "Well," he says slowly, "I'm still on tour schedule, so I'm not going to be able to fall asleep till late _anyway..._ "

Brendon laughs. _Christ,_ Spencer thinks. _I've got Brendon Urie in my bed._ Pretty fucking weird—but good, too. He leans down and kisses him again. Yeah. Weird, but good.


End file.
